Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła
by Nena et al
Summary: Vash had been looking out for a nation he hadn't met for longer than he realized. Feliks doesn't seem quite so grateful. Rated T to be safe.


Have you ever realized that your life was changed because of mere coincidence? How you may not have met your enemy, or friend, or even life partner if you hadn't stumbled upon something you probably weren't meant to see? Such is the story of how two nations met, on one ordinary day in a rather ordinary place.

On that day, Vash Zwingli was doing a routine patrol of his lands—that is, all of Switzerland—when a low murmur, barely audible, reached his ears in the castle of Hilfikon. Peering into the nearest room, he could see many figures packed tight around the table, their heads huddled together. Hissing angrily in a language Vash barely knew,the heads of the members of the clandestine meeting darted from side to side, the men nodding enthusiastically.

The nation entered the room, unseen by the normal humans, and listened intently. Words shot through the air like bullets, both of debate and of agreement. The unfamiliar language was nearly unintelligible for him; he caught only fragments, and many a mentioning of a Liga Polska. It was not until many weeks later that he realized what he had seen—the founding of the Polish League. Yet, not knowing what they spoke of, he could not hide a grin of admiration for the men who courageously met, not fearing the punishment for being caught. Their passion was a fervent flame, a determined glint in each member's eyes that night. And so, intrigued by their dedication, he made a mental note to keep a close eye on a certain few, including those whom he had come to know as Walenty Stefański and August Cieszkowski.

His watch over the freedom fighters proved useful as he witnessed the birth of another organization, now of students who spoke the same strange tongue. Thankfully, the groups in Geneva and Zurich offered lessons for what he discovered was Polish, and he quickly became accustomed to their speech. It was at this time when he began to notice the prescence of Poland, although he had yet to meet the man—or woman—that represented the land. The meetings of Liga Polska and the new group, the Union of Polish Youth, or Zet, became a part of the boy's schedule. He didn't know what else to do, but he knew what not to do. He carried on with his life as usual, never reporting the existence of such groups.

He became a supporter of the groups, as well, albeit an unknown supporter. Though seemingly indifferent towards the matters of the other nations, he felt genuine concern towards the land. When Zet spoke of hardships in their home, the Swiss would stare forlornly to the northeast, pondering how the stranger was faring. When they spoke of successes, he was apt to give a grin, mentally congratulating him or her.

In 1918, throngs of the Poles began to leave for their homeland, inspired by news of Polish independence. The lone nation followed a particularly large group, giving the others his blessings. Day after day passed, but their hope did not falter. After two weeks, mothers still sung the infants cradled in their arms to sleep with their traditional songs, men still heaved the supplies on their backs. Resting in a forest clearing with only hours left in the journey, a storm suddenly struck. The travelers scrambled for cover, children shrieking as thunder crashed. Parents scooped up the young boys and girls in their arms, running back to a cave that they had passed many minutes ago. Vash began to follow at a brisk pace, not affected by the weather as much, when the loud and hurried sound of mud lapping at running feet began. Giving a glance over his shoulder, he saw a girl that he recognized, Felicia Bacewicz. She was three years old, he had overheard, and she was making the long trek with her mother and nine year old sister. Her father had been arrested like so many other freedom fighters. Her journey had begun in Montespluga, Italy. He recalled seeing the girl wandering ahead as the others rested. Her curiosity had separated her from the others.

The horde had already left the boy far behind, and the girl was at least fifty meters behind him, in turn. She had no way of knowing where they had gone. Lost and confused, she stumbled in the rain towards the nearest trees. Collapsing into a pathetic heap under low-lying pine branches, the child cried out for home, her mother, her father, and for help, any help at all.

"_Jeszcze Polska nie umarła, __  
__Kiedy ty żyjemy__  
__Co nam obca moc wydarła,__  
__Szablą odbijemy._

_Marsz, marsz, Dąbrowski__  
__Do Polski z ziemi włoskiej__  
__Za twoim przewodem__  
__Złączym się z narode_."

Brows furrowing, the Swiss tried to locate the source of the music. With a jolt, he realized that the rough voice was his own. He had often heard the Polish adults teaching the song to those who had been born in other lands. His paranoid expression melting into a soft smile—a rare sight—he approached the girl, sitting down next to her. Once more, he began to sing, his expression peaceful as he found peace in the darkness behind his eyelids. As he repeated the lyrics, he knew that she could not hear him; it must have been his imagination that she had looked up, her sobs ending.

"_Jak Czarniecki do Poznania__  
__Wracał się przez morze__  
__Dla ojczyzny ratowania__  
__Po szwedzkim rozbiorze._

_Marsz, marsz, Dąbrowski__  
__Do Polski z ziemi włoskiej__  
__Za twoim przewodem—_"

"_Złączym się z narodem_."

The Swiss's eyes blinked open. That was not his voice. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw only the forest floor where the girl had been moments before. He jolted to his feet and reached for the rifle on his back. He hadn't heard the girl's clumsy footsteps, so where—?

Standing before the boy was an older figure, cradling the sleeping child in his arms. Spots of bloodied skin could be seen through holes in a dirtied olive-colored uniform. The clothing was beaten and badly torn, but no more so than the man wearing them. His strong voice rang through the land despite his fatigue. He, too, sang the Polish song, but the emotion was completely different.

In that moment, Vash realized that this was not just a Polish man. This was Poland. This was the man he had worried about, the man he had supported as much as he could. His smile was back, now full of respect for the troubled land.

With a slightly arrogant smirk and smug eyes, the elder nation turned to him. The gun-toting country will never forget the first words he said to him. They stared into each other's eyes, and Feliks said what he knew he must say since he first heard the other.

"Your singing like totally sucks, ya know."

* * *

It's a bit odd, eh? I wrote this a while ago and sort of forgot about it, so here it is. I've been thinking of continuing this or changing the end, but only if I know that someone's interested in me doing so. Please tell me if I've made any historical errors or if I've made a mistake somewhere. A bit of the Polish anthem Vash was singing is wrong on purpose, it should be _Kiedy my żyjemy._


End file.
